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“I can’t believe we’re alone, just the two of us.”
A year ago, hearing that phrase might have made Eddie’s heart soar. In his head, he can almost see it: Richie kicking the bedroom door behind him shut and smiling in that dumb way he does with too much teeth. But he loves that dumb smile, and the stupid tilt of his glasses broken one too many times, and the sharpness of his elbows that nudge him constantly just to remind him that he’s there, and the flickering thoughts in his busy eyes that Eddie can see so clearly now that Richie’s standing too close, but not close enough, never close enough. The bass shakes the floor, music muffled beneath the layers of drywall and the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. And then Richie is lifting Eddie’s hands, lacing them together as he asks dance with me?
But that was a year ago, before horror movies suddenly became reality in the lumbering forms of the living dead. Before the outbreaks and the quarantines, all the investigations for a cure that led to nothing, and before he packed up everything he thought he needed in a bag and abandoned Derry with his friends at his side. The day they crossed the city limits they shed their title of the Losers and suddenly were nameless survivors; just a bunch of teenagers with dead parents and a desperation to live. The last ones standing.
Maybe he could have still loved hearing that phrase regardless of the dangerous times, but not after the accident in May when they lost Bill. After the day Bev sacrificed herself and Ben couldn’t bear to let her. After Stan couldn’t hold the door anymore. After Mike took the night watch.
So when Richie says, “I can’t believe we’re alone, just the two of us”, it doesn’t sound so romantic anymore.
“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles. “Me either.”
It sounds like a death sentence.
They had done their best to bar the doors to the outlet mall they stumbled upon with chairs and discarded wheeled kiosks, but ultimately it was pointless. There had to be dozens of entrances, and it was too much work for the two of them to try and board them all up before something smelled them. After all, those things might already be inside, in addition to the horde that’s been following them at a distance in a ravenous pack. Eddie has slept a collective 10 hours this last week, and his stomach has gone numb with hunger.
Trying to shake off the nagging feeling of being chased, he looks over at Richie—his Richie, who drops his tattered backpack onto the floor and attempts to catch his breath after shoving around the kiosks. He won’t admit it, but Eddie can clearly see the darkness hollowing his eyes, the slight twitch of his gaze as he tries to stay awake, the slouch in his step, the way his flannel caked in someone else’s blood now wears him.
He’s exhausted. Eddie’s exhausted.
We can’t run anymore.
Neither of them ever say it despite thinking it everyday. The outlet mall was the only thing dotting the stretch of highway other than rundown mobile homes that had long been looted and probably swarming with more undead. It was a risk to go in somewhere so big as the mall, but they didn’t have a choice anymore.
We can’t keep running.
“What’d you say?” Richie asks, now crouched down to investigate an upturned vending machine. There’s no food in it, of course. It’s as empty as their backpacks and water bottles have been for the last two days.
“Nothing,” Eddie says, biting his tongue. He didn’t even realize he was thinking out loud.
But Richie stands anyway, looking at him for a long second with a scrunched up look Eddie recognizes from too many nights of being too terrified to even whisper. Richie Tozier may not have many trademark talents, but being able to read Eddie like a book seems to be one of them. Sometimes he hates how he loves the way Richie can see right through him.
Because maybe if he was better at keeping his thoughts hidden, he wouldn’t have to see the moment Richie knows exactly what Eddie had said; the way he nearly caves into himself knowing he can’t think of a good reason to tell Eddie he’s wrong. This mall is a temporary bandaid, and there’s only two options:
See what they can find and keep going, or stay here and….
Richie opens his mouth to say something—probably an awful pun Eddie’s already heard before but will gladly take the distraction of something dumb right now—but then he’s looking past Eddie, eyes narrowed and then blown wide with a mischievous grin betraying the somber tone.
“Give me five minutes,” Richie says, patting Eddie on the cheek as he dashes past him with a surprising amount of energy.
“Wait—!” Eddie barely gets a hold of Richie’s shirt sleeve, “We can’t split up!” He jerks on his wrist, making Richie’s sneakers squeak against the slick linoleum tiles as he skids to a halt, flailing to catch himself from falling by grasping Eddie’s elbows. By inertia or intention, their foreheads bump together, pulling them close enough for Eddie to see the hairline scratches from too close of calls hidden beneath the rim of Richie’s glasses. Like their spirits, the marks scarred over crooked.
“I’ll only be a moment, promise,” Richie reassures, squeezing Eddie’s elbows for gentle emphasis. “Just stay right here, okay?”
Eddie swallows down a reluctant groan as he nods, feeling more than helpless watching Richie vault over the counter marked Security and disappear into a darkened doorway. The paranoid part of his heart wants to call after him, but it’s not worth it. If there really is anyone else inside, he’d only be drawing their attention faster.
Uneasily pulling the sleeves of his varsity jacket down over his hands—no, not his. This is Mike’s. This…was—Eddie takes a few curious steps away from the barricaded doors, making sure to not stray more than fifteen steps away from where Richie disappeared to. The main lights are out, but some shops remain lit by single lamps bordering the doorways indicating that a rare bit of electricity still runs here. But it’s mostly daylight streaming from the skylights that illuminate the scuffed tiles, the darkened department stores with shattered windows and overturned shelves spilling their contents across the floor, and a dormant fountain nestled in front of a pair of frozen escalators leading up to what a nearby sign indicates was the food court.
It’s eerie, almost more uncomfortable than the dumpsters they’ve hid in or the abandoned miles of empty fields they’ve trekked through. There’s something unfathomably unsettling about an abandoned mall: a place normally filled with crowds of people and sounds of laughter and overlapped conversations. His footsteps shouldn’t echo here, but they do. Each one sounds like distant thunder clapping down the dimmed hall blocked from view by the escalators.
He shouldn’t feel safer being uncomfortable, but he does.
It means nothing’s here yet.
“Gooooood afternoon to everyone named Eddie, Eds, and Edward Kaspbrak. This is your DJ coming in live with exclusively today’s greatest hits”
Oh, fucking hell—Eddie flinches hard at the crackle of static and the sudden boom of Richie’s voice amplified over the somehow active speakers. It bounces down the vacant halls and calls back at him, muffled and distant and everywhere. If somethings are in here and didn’t know about them taking shelter here yet, they certainly do now.
Eddie might just murder Richie goddamn Tozier himself.
“Today’s playlist, composed by yours truly, may sound redundant at first, and to that I’d like to say: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it…also, there’s only, like, three tracks in here that aren’t ruined, and I’m not about to blast music from someone named Meatloaf.”
Eddie’s head swivels back and forth like a pendulum, squinting into every window front he can to see if anything is awoken by Richie’s charade. Nothing seems to be moving; only graffiti’d and knocked over mannequins look back at him.
But the rest of the mall could be very, very alive just out of view.
“So grab a dance partner—particularly a handsome one with sick moves and wearing a Journey shirt—because I think you’ll find this track very familiar.”
With another sickeningly loud crackle of static, the muffled sound of a quick rapt of cymbals and a catchy guitar riff filter through the speakers, nearly bringing a grin to Eddie’s face as the keyboard chords come in. Everybody Wants To Rule the World, of course. It was the song he and Richie played every Friday morning on the car ride to school, and always requested anytime they ended up somewhere with a DJ or jukebox. It sounded like the old times, the good times, the days where his biggest worry was if anyone saw him blatantly staring at Richie across the lunch table.
It sounds like his life flashing right before his eyes.
“What’re you just standing there for?” Richie calls behind him, swinging himself back over the counter and sashaying his way over to Eddie with that dopey grin of his. “Don’t tell me you’re too tired to dance with me!”
“Shut up!” Eddie instinctively hushes, planting his hands over Richie’s motor mouth. “Turn this off, Richie, something could hear us!”
Completely disregarding Eddie’s alarm at the situation, Richie pries Eddie’s hands away with an impish wink, “Too late baby, I put it on repeat.” Ducking and twirling under the crook of their joined arms with a flourish, Richie backpedals towards the fountain and motions for Eddie to follow with two fingers. His head bobs to the beat, not even bothering to look around at anything but Eddie.
Dread gathers like a thick knot inside Eddie’s chest as he watches Richie hop up onto the fountain’s edge. He hasn’t needed to tell Richie to lower his voice in months. They both know better. He can’t have just forgotten something so crucial to their survival all of a sudden; no, Richie is curious, but not careless. He’s ignoring the rules on purpose.
“Welcome to your life—”
Richie’s not running.
“—there’s no turning back.”
Eddie scoops Richie’s backpack off the ground, digging with shaky hands for the flashlight hidden in one of the pockets. He refuses to be ambushed due to Richie being caught up in nostalgia, masking his fear with irritation and a middle finger as he trudges past Richie’s mindless dancing.
Of course, Richie simply follows along, determined to keep up his serenade. He jumps into the water with both feet to send a small tidal wave spilling up and over the edges, prancing across the fountain in noisy splashes all the while still singing along in off-key passion. His sneakers are even louder now against the tile floor as he jumps out and swings around Eddie in circles, poking and prodding at Eddie’s tense shoulders. “—ac-ting on your best be-hay-vur, turn” poke “your” poke “back” poke “on muh-ther nay-chure.”
He grabs Eddie’s arm that’s holding onto the flashlight, swinging it up under Richie’s chin like a microphone, “Ev-‘ry-bo-dy wants to rule the world.”
Eddie jerks his arm away as Richie obnoxiously tries to sing the guitar part as well, turning his attention back towards one of the side hallways that the skylights can’t reach. From what he can make out from his minimal flashlight beam, most of the stores are boarded up. Whether it’s to keep people in or out, he’ll take it over a waiting, hungry horde.
Noticing the absence at his side, he glances back: Richie is doing an impeccable Breakfast Club dance montage rendition in the middle of the main hall, using the skylights as a spotlight for the awkward grace of his one-man show. He’s as coordinated as a giraffe on ice, but he looks carefree under the halo of sunlight. He looks like he did a long time ago.
No, not a long time ago. Just a year ago. It was only a year ago that my friends were alive. It was only a single year ago that we were having stupid arguments over who was the designated driver and where we’d all be going off to college, when only Stan and I were actually paying attention to the CDC press conferences, when—
Eddie shakes ghosts out of his head, trying not to let the memory stick and distract him. Distraction is a silent killer, and he tries to only focus on the sound of glass crunching under his worn All-Stars as he takes cautious steps over the threshold of a department store, shining his light back and forth across abandoned cash registers and displays for shattered perfume bottles. It’d be dangerous going in somewhere so dark, but maybe there’s stuff left untouched that he could—
“Eds!”
Jesus fucking—“What, Richie?” Richie’s hands are on his waist before Eddie even has a chance to turn, getting dragged backwards away from the store against his will. He drops the flashlight in surprise, watching it bounce and roll under a bench.
“C’mon, dance with me,” Richie coaxes. He tries to make the smaller boy rock back and forth with the rhythm, not even flinching when Eddie shoves his hands away with an aggravated scoff. But he doesn’t let him turn back to investigate the department store, instead intertwining their hands and skipping backwards into the main hall, pulling them back the way they came.
Above them, the song repeats with the familiar trill of synth.
Eddie begrudgingly lets himself be pulled along as Richie swings their arms together, wincing at the blanket of static playing under the music. Everything is so loud and he can’t hear over the grainy speakers for that trademark low groan of lumbering bodies, the terrible scrape of limbs against the tile, the excited growl once they spot their prey and oh god he can practically feel the hot breath on the back of his neck now. The longer they stand around dancing and letting this damn song act as a beacon for the undead, the less time he has to…
What?
The realization that he isn’t searching for an escape route halts him in place, nearly dragging Richie down from his poor attempt at moonwalking. There are exit doors at the end of every hall, and they could easily take any one of them and put this mall far behind them. But he doesn’t turn towards any of them, and he knows he isn’t going to. The thought of going outside, of going one more damn mile, feels like a bullet to the head.
Where am I going?
“Where are we going?” Eddie asks. It comes out less as a question and more of a demand.
"Help me to decideee,” Richie sings along with lyrics instead of answering, snapping his fingers in time and shifting his weight from heel to heel with a pop of his hips. “Help me make the—” He throws an arm around Eddie’s tensed shoulders, forcing him into a makeshift tango as they near the escalators again. Laughing into Eddie’s hair, he twirls them around once before lifting Eddie up and onto the motionless handrails.
“I’m being serious,” Eddie sighs, biting his lip from a traitorous grin appearing. Gnawing terror is still clawing its way up his throat, but for just a wonderful second, all he can think about is Richie ridiculously shimmying his shoulders and throwing out jazz hands. He watches him try to pop up onto his toes like Michael Jackson, but quickly loses his balance and topples forward with enough pride to pretend like he did it on purpose to dramatically drape over the railing. Despite it all, Eddie is bursting out laughing like he hasn’t let himself in months, knowing Richie’s been trying to perfect that move for years. Somehow, he’s still no good at it.
“Everybody wants to rule the world.”
Richie marches past him up the escalator, grabbing Eddie’s hand as he takes the steps two at a time. He scrambles to keep up, too focused on his footing and the back of Richie’s head to be apprehensive about what might be waiting in the food court until they’ve already reached the top. The actual restaurants themselves are barred shut, leaving a dismal collection of overturned chairs and empty tables littered across the floor. It doesn’t take long for Eddie to notice that the escalators are the only way in and out.
As he’s caught up in surveying the area, Richie tugs the backpack from his shoulders, unceremoniously chucking it back down the escalator as if it didn’t hold their last handful of glow sticks.
“Richie!” Eddie protests louder than he intends to, feet already whirling around to go retrieve the bag. But Richie’s hands are cupping his face faster than he can move, pulling their foreheads in close again as Richie hums the fading chorus. His face is calm, an amused smirk pulling at his lips as Eddie fights off confusion. Richie is keeping him on his toes—both literally and figuratively—and always keeping Eddie facing forward. The blaring music and his apathy for how loud he’s being betrays every rule they’ve set, and he’s laughing at Eddie’s wrinkled expression.
A year ago, it would have made Eddie’s heart melt. He would have tugged his head down by his curls and lovingly called him an idiot, blissfully letting Richie be his favorite distraction.
But that was then. Now, it’s all wrong.
“Richie…” Eddie whispers, hands coming up to clench at Richie’s sleeves to still his trembling fingers. He wants to be wrong. Please let me be wrong. “…what’s behind me?”
And there it is.
It’s a fleeting moment that he nearly misses from Richie’s thrown-off fluttering eyelids, but the temporary look of panic taints Richie’s cheek-bruising smile just long enough for Eddie to know exactly what he was terrified of. “Those things are down there, aren’t they?” He manages a thankful, weak smile. “You’ve been trying to avoid letting me see them.”
Above them, the song restarts again.
Richie bites his lip, confirming Eddie’s suspicions. His resulting laugh is short, dark as he taps Eddie’s cheek with his thumb. “Ah, I should’ve known. You’re far too clever for me, my boy.” But then he’s dropping down to one knee, brushing kisses to Eddie’s knuckles like a gentleman. “Now will you dance with me?”
Eddie backs out of his grip, arms thrown out in exasperation that Richie’s in denial and keeping up his theatrics. “What are we even doing up here? There’s only one exit, we’re cornering ourselves!”
Richie rises back up to his feet, removing the distance between them and looking terrifying neutral. Like someone trying to soften the blow. “Eds, you know why.”
“I don’t,” Eddie lies.
“You said it yourself, we can’t keep running.”
“I know, but… it scares me knowing you think that too.”
“Why?”
“Because…fuck Richie, it means it’s real.” He averts his gaze towards their shoes, unable to handle the pitied look Richie’s giving him. “B-because it means…it—” His words turn into a strangled sound, unable to force the words out and admit defeat; to admit they’ve given up after a year of fighting to stay alive and watching their friends die to protect each other.
He can’t say it. He can’t bring himself even open his mouth. So he’s grateful when Richie’s gently lifting up his chin, brave enough to admit it: “It’s okay, Eddie, I’ve got you. You’ve been stronger than me for so long, always being the one keeping us moving forward. But we don’t have to run anymore. We can just sway.”
Eddie shakes his head furiously. “We can’t.” But even as he says it, he knows that he’s already signed his fate. He knows exactly what Richie is doing. It’s not just a dance, and it’s not just their song.
It’s their swan song, and Richie’s having them sway together toward the finale instead of crawl.
I love Richie Tozier so fucking much.
“Richie—”
“Don’t say it.” Richie grabs Eddie by the hand again, expression soft as he leads him towards the mess of tables. He uses one of the chairs as a stepping stool—“Holding hands while the world comes tumbling down”—careful to test to see if it can hold his weight before tugging for Eddie to follow along. They haphazardly step from table top to table top, moving themselves towards the center of the room until Richie’s satisfied they found a sturdy enough table to hold them both.
It’s not until Richie’s arms are looping around his shoulders that Eddie nearly loses it. Facing away from the escalators, the fear of knowing that they are probably coming up the stairs now sends his nerves into overdrive. Richie tries rubbing soothing circles in the small of his back, guiding Eddie into his chest. He smells of copper and cold.
“So glad we almost made it”
“Just sway with me,” Richie whispers into his ear. He brings his hands up, covering Eddie’s ears with his palms to shut out all the noise. He can still almost hear the muffled approaching groans and hisses mixed with the keyboard chords over his pulsing heartbeat.
We’re going to die here, Eddie wants to say, but he can’t. There’s no point is wasting his breath on something so blatantly, harshly true. Because if he just sways along, everything fades away other than the familiar warmth of Richie’s hands, and the proximity that he could know is him even with his eyes shut. Nevermind the scabbed hands that start brushing, gripping, pulling now at his ankles as they try to climb. Nevermind the sudden quickness of Richie’s breath against his hair, or the silent tears he feels dripping onto his face. Nevermind the fight to live trying to spur Eddie into running. Nevermind the realization that he’s going to die being dragged away by greedy hands desperate for his flesh.
“Nothing ever lasts forever”
There’s still another minute in the song, he thinks. He suddenly can’t remember how it end, and he knows he’s never going to find out. But there are worse songs to die to, and worse people to dance with. And if he shuts his eyes, he can almost pretend it’s just him and Richie, swaying together in that bedroom while the party raged on below them, tuning out the white noise and clinging to each other like lifelines until the record skips—